Abeokuta — Bayo's Hideout, Pre-Dawn
Rain had slowed to a mist, leaving puddles glimmering like broken glass under the faint streetlights. Bayo Adeniran leaned over the monitors, scanning overlays from Lagos, Ibadan, and now newly active northern and southern grids. Every spike of data pulsed like a heartbeat in a fragile body—the rhythm of a nation teetering between exposure and suppression.
Ayo sat beside on a stool, small hands flying across a second laptop.
"Mom's reroute works. I patched a leak near Kano. They won't triangulate us anymore," he said, voice calm but sharp.
Bayo's lips curved faintly. "You've grown. Even at nine, you're already a strategist."
Ayo smiled. "I like fixing things no one sees."
Behind them, Tope stirred, rubbing her eyes. "You two sound like surgeons again," she muttered.
"Maybe we are," Bayo replied. "Operating on a dying country."
The generator hummed low. Drips from the ceiling fell into a rusty bowl. Silence held the night hostage, broken only by faint clicks of encrypted channels and the occasional ping of alerts.
Bayo adjusted the overlays, connecting northern ports, industrial towns, and southern coastal hubs.
"Babargas, Port Harcourt, Kano, Kaduna… vulture networks embedded as businessmen, politicians, and traders. They've been poisoning the air and water for decades, hiding behind religion, culture, and tradition. Now we trace them."
Ayo's small hand hovered over the keyboard. "I can follow them through trade patterns, cross-check shell companies with the NGOs' intel."
Bayo nodded. "Do it. Every trace counts."
~ ~ ~
Lagos — Governor Okunlola's Office, Morning
Sunlight sliced through the blinds, illuminating stacks of subpoenas, media clippings, and unsigned resignation letters. The Senate Committee convened tomorrow, and the weight of exposure pressed on him like iron.
Eze entered, his voice low, sharp. "The kingmakers are mobilizing. You're already under their lens. Foreign collaborators are watching every public reaction."
Okunlola clenched his jaw. "Then we misstep strategically. Fear is a tool; panic is a weapon. We'll survive in the spotlight if we control it."
A secure message blinked on his tablet: Your silence is optional. Visibility is mandatory.
He stared, the realization sinking. He was already sacrificed—alive only to distract, while unseen vultures maneuvered in the shadows.
He muttered to himself, "I thought I ruled the system. I only played in its margin."
~ ~ ~
Ibadan — Tope's Hideout, Late Morning
Steam hissed from a kettle as Tope monitored Ayo's work. Lines of code raced across his screen as he rerouted signals through Ghana, Senegal, and the Canary Islands.
"Mom," he said, "someone's injecting dummy packets. Trying to mislead our trackers."
Tope bent over him. "Then feed them ghosts."
"They're already chasing themselves into the Atlantic," Ayo replied.
She brushed his shoulder. "Promise me you'll rest after this."
"I will—when truth sleeps," he said, eyes fixed on the monitors.
Tope's heart twisted. For a moment, she saw the boy who once drew solar panels and dreamed of clean air. He had become her partner in a silent war, strategy and instinct blending in uncanny harmony.
Outside, a train wailed, blending with the hum of fans. Life moved forward, oblivious to the digital and human battlefield within the house.
Ayo pointed at the screen. "I traced three new nodes in the north—Kano, Jos, and Maiduguri. Patterns match Bayo's northern networks."
Tope nodded. "Perfect. Map them to our feeds. Lagos, Abeokuta, and southern ports will be ready when the tide rises."
~ ~ ~
Mushin — Mutiu's Workshop, Afternoon
Sparks leapt from welding torches, briefly illuminating Mutiu's determined face. He stacked the final flash drives, each meant for a different outlet: unions, churches, NGOs, and community centers across multiple cities.
"Every outlet touches a different layer," Chuks said. "Some civic, some religious, some labor. We hit all angles."
Mutiu's gaze hardened. "Faith, labor, tradition—same blood, different veins. Make sure the conscience survives."
Chuks hesitated. "And if they trace it?"
"We become folklore," Mutiu replied. His voice was prayer, prophecy, and command all at once.
Outside, the sky bled copper-grey. Lagos held its breath before the next storm. Meanwhile, Mutiu's scouts prepared for the northern and southern expansion. He had operatives in Babargas, Kaduna, and Port Harcourt, each ready to act.
~ ~ ~
Northern Nigeria — Babarga Network, Afternoon
In a high-rise office, veiled as a trading company, a group of vultures discussed shipments of industrial waste disguised as fertilizers.
"Air and water are ours," one said, smiling faintly. "Culture shields us. Religion justifies us."
Unseen, sensors from Bayo's northern network had traced transactions and shipping logs to the southern ports. Ayo's earlier digital fingerprints now followed the operatives like ghosts.
Back in Ibadan, Tope monitored northern activity. "Bayo, I've mapped the northern nodes. Each shipment, each business shell, every NGO façade. They're exposed digitally before we even touch the streets."
Bayo's eyes narrowed. "Good. Let's see how long the vultures last in daylight."
~ ~ ~
Abuja — Federal Oversight, Evening
Within the marble corridors of bureaucracy, analysts whispered over screens. Foreign accounts, offshore transfers, bunkering records—all connected to the same network of corrupt businessmen and politicians.
A junior officer remarked, "Sir, it's bigger than Okunlola. The north and south too?"
His superior replied, voice low, "It's the entire country. But the people can see it if they choose. And if they act, it can crumble."
Outside, the wind carried dust, exhaust, and a faint scent of rain. The system creaked under the weight of its own secrets.
~ ~ ~
Lagos — Public Square, Nightfall
Screens illuminated the crowd. Protesters shouted, waved placards, and online hashtags pulsed like digital lightning: AIR BELONGS TO ALL.
Two commissioners resigned on live television. Social media erupted. Citizens flooded the streets, pressure mounting from Lagos to Kano, Jos, Port Harcourt, and Maiduguri.
From his hideout, Bayo observed the cascade of reactions. "The tide is changing."
Kazeem leaned in. "Not a tide yet. This is thunder before the rain."
Bayo smiled faintly. "Then we make it pour."
~ ~ ~
Abeokuta — Night Sequence
Generators coughed outside the hideout. The team packed drives, cables, and backup hardware for northern and southern expansions.
Tope whispered, "If this fails—"
"It won't," Bayo assured.
Ayo clicked the last keys. "Uploading. Five mirrors online, two dark. One for the north, one for the south."
"What are the dark ones for?" Tope asked.
"Insurance," he said. "If anything happens, the truth still wakes."
Lightning split the sky. Rain pelted the walls.
Bayo murmured, "They wanted to own the air."
Tope answered, "Now the air owns them."
The wind rattled the shutters violently, as if the storm itself bore witness. Beyond the hills, the cities exhaled—the northern deserts, southern coasts, and central plains breathing the story of exposure, resistance, and accountability.
~ ~ ~
Closing Note
The truth had become airborne. It was weightless, invisible, unstoppable.
From Babarga to Lagos, Kano to Port Harcourt, the network of corruption and rot had been traced, mapped, and disrupted.
Ayo rested briefly, small hands still warm from typing. Tope watched him, pride and fear mingled. Bayo observed the city lights, shadows stretching across the nation.
The vultures in culture, religion, and politics had been glimpsed. The fight was far from over—but the air was no longer theirs to control.